


Anniversary

by amaradangeli



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 16:12:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13930626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaradangeli/pseuds/amaradangeli
Summary: She's the only person on the planet he thinks he can tolerate on this day.





	Anniversary

**Author's Note:**

> A couple handfuls of you will recognize this fic. For the rest of you it will be new. Hope you enjoy!

He's allowed to be in a mood, he thinks. It was a bad mission on a bad date. He should have never agreed to a rock finding expedition on the anniversary of Charlie's death. He knew Daniel would just get on his already frayed nerves, but part of him had thought he'd healed enough. He was wrong. He hasn't healed enough, not if the bottle of Jack on his counter is any indication. Not if the way he's reacting to the sound of his doorbell is any barometer of his mood.

He answers the door anyway to see _her_ standing there. A blessed bottle of dark booze in her hand and an unsure smile on her face. "I thought you could use a little company," she says, sliding by him without the invitation he would have given her.

She's right, he could use a little company – only hers will do. She's the only person on the planet he thinks he can tolerate on this day. And she knows, which is why she's there after a long, hot mission on a dusty planet. She's shown up to be the rock he needs. The drinking buddy who won't let him get too morose or too maudlin. The woman who makes each of his days bright enough to put one foot in front of the other even when he's not sure he wants to.

In the kitchen, she eyes the Jack Daniels and screws the cap back on definitively. She opens the bottle she brought. Johnnie Walker Blue, the good stuff, and pours a splash into two juice glasses. She hands him one with a smile. "To the ones who aren't with us anymore, though they always will be."

He clinks his glass against hers even though there's a sharp ache in his chest at her words. "Hear, hear," he says gruffly and downs the finger she'd poured him all in one go. She doesn't even blink when she takes his glass and refills it. He notices she only sipped at her own.

They migrate, quietly, to the living room because she leads him there. She sits down on his couch and he follows her down sitting in the small space she left between her and the arm. She relaxes into his furniture and he likes how unselfconscious she is in his space, she's only this way when she's there alone. When the guys are there it's like she feels like she needs to be something specific, but when it's just the two of them together she's... easy.

"You were good today," she says, finally, into the quiet.

He snorts. He was anything but good.

"No, I mean it. You could have been awful to Daniel, instead you were just... snarky."

"Daniel and his damn rocks," he says, to get a smile out of her. He gives her a sidelong glance. It works.

He finishes his drink and she starts to get up to get him more but he stops her with a hand on her arm. She settles back into the couch. "Not getting drunk tonight?"

"Nah, the company's just fine."

A pretty blush stains her cheeks and he's glad all the lights are on so he can see it. He looks at her, really gives her a good once-over. Her jeans fit well and the long-sleeved t-shirt she has on hugs her body attractively. It stirs his blood. He gets this way when he's down. Gets horny. Needy. Not that wanting her is new, but actively thinking about how to touch her – how to get her to touch him – is.

She quirks an eyebrow at him and he realizes that he's been staring at her. She doesn't seem to mind. She doesn't seem to think anything at all about it outside of curiosity.

He lets his eyes drift down to her breasts. Doesn't care that it'll be obvious what he's looking at. He's a little past caring what she thinks about his obvious interest. When he meets her eyes again he sees intrigue there. Curiosity. Maybe a little recklessness, too.

Until she licks her lips, he’s sure he’s going to be able to hold it together. The sound he makes at the action makes her eyes grow wide and his cheeks pink up. He isn’t supposed to do that. He isn’t supposed to telegraph how much he wants her.

She tilts her head, like she’s considering something important. He’s shocked as hell when she leans into his space. Her whisky warmed breath wafts over him and it’s the most natural thing in the world to lean in close and capture her lips with his own.

The kiss starts out gentle with no hint of his inner turmoil, but as she persists, he begins to pour that into her. Her hand comes up to grasp the back of his neck, to hold him to her. He fights the urge to give her everything that plagues him, to let her lips be the filter for his feelings. She deepens the kiss, opens her mouth to him, runs her tongue over the straight edge of his teeth.

The dam inside him breaks. He pulls her to him, crushing her against his chest. He plunders her mouth until he feels something besides pain, confusion and the electricity of the thrill of kissing her, the real her, without subterfuge. He feels _her_. Warm and solid beneath his hands, he feels the way her breath catches and the way she pushes into him.

With balance and finesse he doesn’t possess, she moves to straddle his lap, her calves on either side of his thighs, her hands on his face. Then her hands are everywhere – in his hair, cupping his shoulder blades, caressing his chest, grasping his waist.

It seems like the next solid move is getting them out of their clothes. He reaches for the button of her pants.

"I can't," she says.

Immediately he pulls back from her. She's right. "You're right." He knows he looks contrite. He feels it.

"No," she says, putting a hand on his face. "It's just," she blushes, "not a good day."

"Oh," he says, before his brain catches up. And then it does. "Oh." He marvels for a moment that _that’s_ her only objection.

She appears to contemplate things for a moment. "But that doesn't mean we can't... that I can't... for you."

"Carter—"

"Jack, please. Let me do this for you."

He's not sure if it's the use of his name, the erstwhile tone of her voice, or his deep desire to let her do whatever it is she wants to do for him, but he is immediately inclined to let her. His better nature argues, though. "You don't have to—"

"I _want_ to."

He believes her. When she says it like that, with that look on her face, he believes her.

Not a moment is wasted. She drops her hand between them and pops the button on his pants. His hard-on intensifies as she drags the zipper down. She reaches past his pants and encounters the stretchy, soft material of his jockey shorts. As her hands find the fly, she leans forward and kisses him. She's not gentle, shy or timid and her tongue is in his mouth almost instantly. It's insistent the way it strokes his own. It's hot, is what it is.

As he's focused on her mouth she startles him when she reaches into his underwear and grasps his cock. Her hand is cool against his heated skin and he groans into her mouth. She pulls him out and presses him between her hand and the front of her jeans, his dick jumps at the thought of being so close to where he really wants to be.

She's apparently creative and no slouch in bed, because the things she thinks to do to him make his head spin. She pulls her mouth from his – though he tries to chase her – slides back a little, presses his cock down against the cradle of his thighs, and then scoots back into place. He can feel the heat of her through her jeans and it's incredible. She rocks her hips a little, massaging him.

He grabs her hips and works her back and forth at a speed and with the pressure that feels the best. He's torn between wishing he was sliding against her naked skin and just enjoying the position he's in, the position he never truly hoped to be in. Though, he has imagined it once or a hundred times – being between her legs.

She seems to reach a point where, even though what she's doing is working for him, she feels like she needs to be doing more. Once more she slides back, this time freeing his cock to spring back into her cool hand, and then sliding forward. There's enough space between them that he can look down to see himself with her fingers wrapped around him. The visual goes right to his head.

She turns him loose for a brief moment, just long enough to bring her hand to her mouth. She looks into his eyes as she licks her palm. It's sexy as fuck. And then she's warm saliva and cool skin wrapped around his dick, stroking from base to tip. He groans at the sensation. He can't help but watch the way he's disappearing into her hand, the way he pushes up through the ring of her fingers, the way she swipes her thumb over the head of his cock.

When she comes away when a drop of precum she releases him and draws her hand up to her mouth, sucking the pad of the digit between her lips. He watches her taste him, watches the way she licks her lips in satisfaction when she's done. Feels a surge of masculine pride at her reaction to his flavor.

She spits into her palm and he anticipates the slick feeling of her hand as she wraps it around him again. Her strokes are slow, deliberate and intense, she squeezes him like he's shown her before exactly what he likes. When she's driven him to the point that his ass cheeks are clenching with the desire to thrust into her hand, she loosens her hold on him just enough to encourage that. He immediately does. It jostles her on his lap and he looks up at her face to make sure she's okay.

She's staring down at his cock wrapped up in her hand. It turns him on to know she wants to look at him. That she likes to watch. That she likes the way they look together. His eyes drop down her body and catch on her chest.

Her nipples are hard and straining against her t-shirt. He can't get at her right breast, her arm's in the way and he's not going to stop what she's doing – it feels too good. But her left hand is on her thigh leaving him a window to reach up and run the pad of his thumb over her peaked nipple. She shudders and arches her back, pushing her breast toward him. He obliges her by taking it in hand, testing the weight, and giving her a firm squeeze.

Her hand falters and he can tell she’s pulled between wanting to pleasure him and wanting to feel pleasure herself. But putting that blissful yet tense look on her face turns him on more than she could ever guess. He wants to touch her, intimately, but she doesn’t want him up close and personal with her while she’s… well… if she has a problem with it, he’s not going to push her. Even if he doesn’t care in the slightest.

As she becomes accustomed to the feeling of his hand on her breast, her strokes on his cock become rhythmical once more. He can barely contain himself as her hand glides over him. It feels so good, so much different than his own hand while he fantasizes about her.

She is excellent at what she’s doing. It’s not the first time a woman has jacked him off, but he can’t remember it ever feeling like this before. He doesn’t know if she’s that good or if it’s because it’s Sam Carter with her hand wrapped around his dick.

The hand that’s on her breast is itching to feel her skin. He trails his hand up her body, up her neck, and covers her jaw. She turns her face into his palm and nuzzles him. It’s such a sweet gesture juxtaposed against her hand on his cock that he’s absolutely taken by surprise when she sucks his thumb into her mouth.

The heat of her mouth, the dexterity of her tongue, the way she sucks… it’s easy to imagine that it’s her mouth on him rather than her hand. His steady thrusts into her fist falter for a moment and when he regains his rhythm he finds he’s moving faster. She’s twisting her tongue around his thumb like she’s been just _waiting_ for there to be something in her mouth. Happy, satisfied sounds – like she’s the one on the verge of coming – make their way out around his thumb.

She swipes her thumb over the head of his cock again and it’s like lightning running through his body. “Again,” he says – moans really – and she complies. At the top of each stroke she complies. Until he feels his body begin to give over to pleasure. He feels his balls draw up close to his body, feels the way he prepares for orgasm. He thinks to warn her in the moment before it happens. She moans and her eyes drift closed. Her teeth scrape the pad of his thumb and that pushes him over the edge.

He comes in white hot jets, harder than he has in years. He watches it happen. Watches the way he spills down her hand, the way some of it hits her shirt – he’d never tell her, but marking her like that really does it for him. When it’s over, she continues to stroke him gently, careful not to overstimulate his sensitive skin. When she takes her hand off him she contemplates the sticky, white fluid that is splattered on her skin. She doesn’t look put off by it. As a matter of fact, she looks a little proud.

“Be right back,” she says, not a hint of regret in her voice. She scrambles off his lap and disappears into the kitchen where he hears the sink come on.

He’s sitting on the couch, boneless, with his dick hanging out of his pants and he’s not sure, exactly, what the protocol is here.

She returns with a dishtowel in her hands. It’s damp when she hands it to him. “Thanks.” He cleans himself up while she watches. It’s a little disconcerting to have her looking at his soft cock, but it’s also intimate and he likes that part of it. When he’s done, he tucks himself back into his pants. She holds out her hand for the towel. He hesitates before handing it to her, knowing it’s got his fluids on it, wondering if that bothers her now that they’re not in the moment anymore. But she takes the towel and heads back toward the kitchen. He hears the accordion doors to his washer and dryer open and then, a moment later, close. The way she’s made herself comfortable in his home is almost better – almost – than the hand job.

He misses the moments shared with someone special in his life. He misses dinner, fighting over the remote, hot showers with a woman, and the sex, too, he’s not ashamed to admit. He liked all of it, even the moments of missing having space and time alone, he liked feeling like he had a partner.

All of that, though, and he’s never, ever felt like he feels when he is with her. The excitement coupled with contentment, the knowledge that she knows him better than probably anybody besides his ex-wife, maybe by now she knows him better, even if there are things about him she hasn’t learned. Yet.

Of course, just because she jerked him off on the anniversary of the worst day of his life doesn’t mean she’s ready to cast the regs to the wind and jump into something with him. And he won’t ask her to. Not now, not ever. If anything is going to happen between them, it’s going to have to be her call. And the fact that tonight happened the way it happened proves she knows that.

She sits beside him on the couch. “You look lost in thought.”

“Thought always loses me,” he quips to cover up the very serious, life altering thoughts he’s having.

She indulges him with a smile. He finds it easy to look into her eyes, despite what they’ve just done, even knowing they never should have done it. He finds that there’s no discomfort, no embarrassment, no reason to feel fear or shame. Because this is _Carter_. She’s seen him at his worst and at his best and now, she’s just seen something more.

She reaches up and brushes something – imaginary – off his shoulder. He likes that she still feels the need for contact with him. That she’s not running from what has happened. He raises one hand and wipes his thumb across her lips. She smiles, touches his skin with the tip of her tongue and then turns away, smile still firmly in place.

“Thanks for coming over tonight.”

“I wouldn’t have been anywhere else.”

It’s not the first time she’s shown up on this anniversary. She has every year since she found out why this particular date made him moody. He’s not sure why this year she allowed something to happen between them. Maybe it’s the perfect storm of their feelings for one another, the close calls and near misses, hell, maybe she’s just feeling a little lonely too.

“Same time, next year?” he tosses her an irreverent smile and hopes she doesn’t realize how much he’s hanging on her answer.

“Same time. Next year. And most of the days in between, too.”

He’s not sure exactly what that means, but he sure does like the sound of it.


End file.
